Not the Hero
by Lychee Nut
Summary: Finnick's not the hero in this story, except maybe he is.


Finnick grows up by the sea.

So does the rest of District 4, but he likes to think it favors him, in particular. Likes to think that the brush of waves against his legs is deliberate, that the sea breeze doesn't just blow by, but caresses his cheek.

Annie likes to call him crazy.

But when he goes home, and his hair is stiff with salt and he's dripping with water and contentment, his mother smooths rough fingers through his hair. She makes him hot tea, and she tells him stories. She tells him about his father, about strong hands and laugh lines, and she smiles, soft and regretful. And she says that the ocean had loved him, too.

One day, it's his thirteenth birthday, and he's leaning back in cold sand. The sun is still beyond the horizon, and the air is sharp and cool, but he's an early riser. And the sea is calling.

He fingers a smooth pebble, and tosses it out to the water.

"Ouch."

Finnick looks up, sheepish and an apology on his tongue, but it dies when he sees the man standing in the surf.

He's tall, with tanned skin and dark curls, and a bright smile. And he has strong, weathered hands and laugh lines, and eyes as green as his.

"Finnick," he says warmly.

"Father." He feels the truth of it, down to his bones.

"Happy birthday," the man murmurs. And then he's gone.

Finnick scrubs at his eyes and lies back in the sand, and blinks when he sees the glowing trident above his head.

He spends the rest of the day hiding in the cove Annie found, but the trident doesn't go away until nightfall.

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He tells his mother the next day, and suddenly she looks old and tired and sad.

"His name," she sighs, "is Poseidon."

And then she's running a hand through his tangles and he sits by her feet as she starts her stories. But this time, they're different.

This time, she speaks of monsters and quests, of gods that had ruled them, and how the world once rested upon their children. She speaks of death and pain, and how life is difficult for every halfblood unlucky enough to realize who they are.

That night, he dreams of orange shirts and bronze knives and a dark-haired boy so important it makes his head hurt and his heart ache.

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His father doesn't visit again. Eleven years go by, and Finnick has shunted the memory to the back of his mind. There are other, so many other more important things to worry about. First it's surviving the Games, and then making sure Annie survives hers, and then mentoring countless tributes who die more often than not. He learns that his mother was right, and that the Fates really do hate demigods.

His dreams continue. It's monsters and battles and always, always that dark-haired boy. Finnick wants to ask him if he ever got tired of saving the world, but he thinks he knows what the answer would be.

He researches. Most history of life before the Capitol was destroyed, but he deals in secrets, and there's not much closed to him anymore. He finds old books, and reads about a land called Greece and heroes of a different era; tragedies of a different era.

He remembers it all, keeps it close when the delicate game of lovers and politics makes his heart harden, because there are so many worse things that could happen.

So it's all about staying alive, making sure his family stays alive, until he's 24 and he finally sees something worthwhile in the games.

Katniss Everdeen takes the Capitol by storm, and a fire is ignited in the districts. So President Snow does what he does best, and finds a way to damn them all. The Quarter Quell is announced. Finnick knows he'll be picked, because his life will never be easy. So he goes to the water.

Poseidon is waiting for him.

"What's the occasion?" Finnick says drily, because while once upon a time he may have spit and screamed, it's different now. He's worn a mask for so long, he's not sure he knows how to take if off.

"The world is about to change," Poseidon says softly. "I wanted to visit my son."

"You're _gods_," Finnick laughed, low and mocking. "You could've changed things a long time ago."

"Not us," his father shakes his head, low and regretful. "Never us. It was only ever heroes who could make a difference."

Finnick studies him and wonders what they did to make the gods turn their backs.

"You stopped believing," Poseidon answers. "You forgot our names, and our power was diminished. Whatever demigods are born here, they'll never be as strong as the ones before."

There's something in his eyes, and Finnick recognizes it as grief.

"Why did you visit me, when I was thirteen?" Finnick asks.

"A promise. There's no more camp, hardly any demigods, but we promised Per-" his voice cuts out, and the waves roil around him.

"There's a dark-haired boy in my dreams," Finnick tells him. He sees it now, the resemblance between the boy and his father.

"He was my son," Poseidon says, carefully, like he's afraid to mess up the words. "He saved the world."

The words flow out like they can't stop. His name was Percy. He was powerful, the most powerful demigod there ever was. He was good and kind and loyal. He loved blue food, he was _in_ love with Athena's daughter, he was reckless and wild, he was sarcastic, he was a leader, he made friends like other people breathed.

"He is my favorite son," Poseidon murmurs softly, as his words slow and stop.

Finnick says nothing, because there's nothing to say.

Eventually, when the sun has faded and pink and orange streak the sky, he realizes his father is gone.

That night, he sees strawberries in a sunbaked field, campfires and singing, and the dark-haired boy grinning at a blonde girl with sharp grey eyes.

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He's in the arena again, and the fear and exhilaration is familiar. He has people to protect, and the goal keeps him moving. There's a rebellion, a second chance, and he's going to give it all he's got.

Maybe he's not the hero, in this story, but that's okay. The Fates hate heroes, even more than they hate demigods. He's only known two heroes with a happy ending, and his name's not Perseus.

But then Mags dies, and he thinks that even if he's not a hero, he's a sorry excuse for a demigod. He lies miserably on the sand, and drifts to sleep.

He wakes up on a long beach, and knows he's dreaming.

"Hey," comes a relaxed voice. There's a dark-haired boy sitting next to him, leaning back on his elbows.

"How did you do it?" Finnick collapses on the ground.

"I had help," Percy grins. "Dad doesn't mention it, maybe, but I had help."

"You're a hero," Finnick groans. "I'm not. I can't do it. I can't fix things."

"Anyone," Percy says softly, "can be a hero."

He blinks and he's back on blood soaked sand, with the frustrating knowledge that Percy is about as helpful as their father.

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Fast forward, and he's running from a group of lizard mutts. He keeps his team in front of him, because Percy's words still ring in his head, and he'll be damned if he lets anyone else die.

When the mutt tears off his head, he dies with the knowledge that the rest made it up the ladder. He has a moment to miss Annie, to miss their unborn son, to miss his mother and the sea, and even his father, before everything goes black.

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"Hey, dude," Percy grins at him. There's a city behind him, glowing white and beautiful. "Looks like you did pretty good."

Finnick wants to worry, wants to worry about his family and his friends, but everything is so good, so happy, that he can't.

"Come on," Percy beckons. "There's lots of people who want to meet you."

Percy walks away, and Finnick follows.


End file.
